


Struggling

by Twiddlesticks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Ineffable Wives, and kind of rollercoastered after that, mostly fluff and internal monologuing, really i just wanted to write about, the idea started out as crowley bein like 'so... tits huh?'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 06:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twiddlesticks/pseuds/Twiddlesticks
Summary: She really had nothing else to say. There was no denying the six thousand years she’d stuck to Aziraphale’s heels like a particularly tenacious wad of gum.Her eyes were firmly on the coffee table by now, but the angel’s expression was easy to guess as her tone softened.“You didn’t, ah, want to sit… with me, did you?”- - -A quiet evening before the move down south. Two lady-shaped beings grapple with things. Themselves. Each other. The usual.





	Struggling

Thwump. 

The armchair gave creakingly under Crowley’s weight as she folded into it, swinging her legs up to dangle over the far armrest. This garnered a brief, disapproving glance from Aziraphale, who was seated across from her, but nothing more. The angel was cozied up on the sofa, novel in hand, cup of tea on a nearby side-table. Both celestial beings were in need of a good rest. They had been packing up the bookshop since six AM.  
Steamer trunks crammed with volumes were sitting in the front room, waiting patiently to be heaved into the Bentley and shuttled off to their new home. The rest of Aziraphale’s personal effects made up the contents of several large cardboard boxes, which all awaited the same journey. Most of the angel’s quarters were bare now, save for the ‘sitting room’, which still had the furniture they were currently occupying. 

It was a little disconcerting, seeing the bookshop so empty, thought Crowley. The mess was what gave it its personality. What marked it as an angel’s nest, so to speak. All that clutter was really a carefully constructed shelter; a cozy hideaway built both to comfort and to disguise the unorthodox inhabitant within. It was an extension of Aziraphale in that way, like a second skin or a suit of armour. And now most of it was tucked away in the front hall, ready to leave for good. 

Crowley couldn’t help but feel a stab of melancholy every time she looked over it. But then, she couldn’t quash the little thrill of excitement, either. The day’s activities were irrefutable proof that this was all really happening. A quick trip down south to South Downs, a little cottage, an eternity of… something new. Crowley had been mentally skirting the thought of what moving in with the angel actually entailed. It was a little too much, at the moment. If she examined it any further she was liable to lose her nerve altogether and scarper. And that wouldn’t be any good for either of them.

Staring aimlessly through her sunglasses, Crowley was grateful to be hauled out of her thoughts by the faint chink of Aziraphale’s winged teacup being set back upon its saucer. Focusing on the angel, Crowley thoughtfully studied her round, pink countenance.  
Her curls were immaculate as usual, pulled back from her face and secured in neat platinum rows with many a hidden bobby-pin. Crowley was fairly certain she used miracles to keep it that way. It was just the sort of half-fussy, half-lazy thing the angel would be guilty of.   
The pair of reading glasses perched lightly on the end of her upturned nose served no purpose other than to keep up appearances. Humans wore glasses while reading books. Aziraphale had witnessed it since spectacles had been invented. It was just how things were done on earth. Crowley had tried to explain to her about lenses and focus and such, but her mind had seemed elsewhere at the time. Perhaps she simply liked the aesthetic they presented, as there was certainly nothing presbyopic about her undefinably-coloured eyes. Below them, her lips were quirked into a pensive pucker, resting neatly on her chin, which in turn rested in the pillow of her folded neck. 

Soft. There was a good word for Aziraphale. Soft. And round. That one was good, too. Crowley glanced down at her own, lanky legs, and then the rumpled shirt concealing her narrow torso. The ribs poked out of it when she raised her arms in the mirror. She suddenly felt very empty, though she wasn’t hungry.   
Sliding into an upright position in her chair, she hesitated, weighing her options, then stood up abruptly and swaggered over to the couch. With another thump, she sat down next to Aziraphale, leaving a respectful but implicit distance between them. 

“Mind if I sit next to you?”

“Not at all…”

The angel didn’t even glance up from her book. Crowley frowned. She sprawled, slightly, as was her wont, and listened to the tick of the wall-clock. It was distractingly loud, all of the sudden. After a good sixty ticks, her leg began to jiggle, and after another thirty, she began to slide down the back of the sofa in small increments. Her jacket made an abrupt scrunch of fabric on fabric every time she slouched farther. Eventually, her legs were bent between the sofa and the coffee table, and her neck was in an uncomfortable position at about waist height. There was a soft clap of papers.

“Is everything quite alright, dear?”

Aziraphale had removed her spectacles and closed her book, putting both objects flat across her knees. She was peering at Crowley quizzically, one eyebrow slightly raised. 

The demon momentarily tried to sink into the sofa. 

“Ahh, nothing,” she said, tiny yellow slivers peeking warily over her sunglasses, “I mean, yeah, everything’s… everything’s fine.”

“Was there something you wanted, then?” 

The scaly bit of herself writhed around in Crowley’s stomach, which did nothing to help her discomfort.

“Er, wanted?”

“Well, I assume you had some reason for coming over here. The only time you sit next to me without one is when there aren’t any other seats.”

Crowley’s stomach tied itself in a knot. It probably hadn’t been intended, but the last statement was a bit of a gut punch. It was that faint implication that closeness was more of an inconvenient concession than a choice. 

“Yeah, well, couldn’t very well get caught cozying up to an angel, could I?” she replied, a tetchy edge to her voice.

The angel in question nodded.

“Hm… Just so…” she drummed her fingers once on the surface of her novel, “All the same, you did spend quite a lot of time with me.”

Crowley desperately wished she could just slither into the cushions and hide until the entirety of the last five minutes had been forgotten. 

“W– ah– yeah. Ss-s’pose I did…”

She really had nothing else to say. There was no denying the six thousand years she’d stuck to Aziraphale’s heels like a particularly tenacious wad of gum.   
Her eyes were firmly on the coffee table by now, but the angel’s expression was easy to guess as her tone softened.

“You didn’t, ah, want to sit… with me, did you?”

By the particular emphasis on ‘with’, Aziraphale seemed to have guessed at the request the demon was far too anxious to voice. This, thankfully, made it a little easier to admit.

“…If it’s not too much trouble,” muttered Crowley, sitting up and trying to sound cool and aloof and totally above it all, because that was totally how she felt, obviously, “I mean, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your novel…”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled as she shifted her posture, “I’m quite experienced with unconventional reading positions.”

Crowley merely stared at this pronouncement, once again lost for words. Aziraphale’s hand drifted towards her hip, then made a sharp turn towards the cushion immediately next to her and patted it, helpfully. 

“Well..? Go on, then…”

Crowley suddenly found herself wondering about the difference between an offer and a temptation. She shuffled slowly across the sofa, sideways, until her arm was pressed up against Aziraphale’s. The angel’s gleaming eyes only grew brighter, but she quickly hid them by flicking her gaze back to her book, which she took up again. The pair sat in silence for a while, one buried between pages of a novel, the other gazing blankly in the opposite direction.   
Crowley’s skin itched. Arm-to-arm didn’t feel right. Or rather, it didn’t feel like enough. They’d been arm-to-arm before. Arm-in-arm once or twice, even. This was nothing new. No, she hadn’t helped prevent the bloody apocalypse and spit hellfire into an Archangel’s face just to go back to being arm-to-arm. 

With a surge of indignant confidence, Crowley tossed caution to the wind and did what humans liked to call the ‘yawn-and-reach’. It was the height of cool, the ultimate in nonchalant flirtation. A smooth, modern move designed to tuck your baby in close with an air of savoir-faire that neatly disguised your anxiety and or desperation. Perspiration, not so much. Due to their current position, Aziraphale’s head was in regrettable proximity to the ‘pits of hell’, as it were. Crowley just hoped she didn’t smell. Well, bad, anyway; she had a consistent stench that was often described as ‘evil’ or ‘demonic’ by certain parties, but it wasn’t actually, as far as she knew, unpleasant. Crowley liked to think her ethereal scent was mysterious and alluring, like expensive cologne. But she probably just smelled like snake.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had turned pink and was focused very intently on her book. Her posture was stiff, but not resistant. She wasn’t pulling away. That was probably a good sign, odiferously speaking.   
In fact, the angel’s plump, rounded torso was beginning to sag, slowly relaxing into Crowley’s boney ribs as she grew more comfortable with the closeness. It was then that the demon glanced down and was struck, quite strongly, by an urge that had plagued her for millennia. 

They were not breasts, as such. Breasts served a biological purpose. They were all wired up for feeding and bonding and suchlike, with milk and hormones and ducts, and all that. The swells of flesh concealed prudently under Aziraphale’s blouse were just that. Flesh. They existed only to project what the angel liked to call a ‘maternal air’; nothing more than an accessory for her current state of corporation. Crowley doubted they even had nipples. Not that the owner couldn’t add some if she wanted. But the point was, the point was, that they were completely useless and served absolutely zero purpose in her everyday life. Yet she kept them. And as long as she kept them, Crowley would continue to wish fervently for the opportunity to bury her face right in the middle.

But you could only look human for so long without becoming a little humanish. The concept of body parts and their various interactions was completely unimportant to a formless, celestial being. It was only when that celestial being was cooped up in a meat suit so long that they started to grow into it that all that skin and culture and etiquette started getting personal.   
It was not polite to plant one’s face between a person’s breasts. It was rude. Ribald. Unsavoury. Your upright, respectable gentleperson didn’t just waltz up to someone and ask ‘Hullo! Jolly good weather we’re having. Can I stick my face ‘twixt your tits?” 

Crowley wasn’t what one would call respectable or upright, but she didn’t want to insult the angel. Aziraphale was very concerned with human propriety, in her own way. But oh, did she look soft. And round. And cushiony. And probably very warm; Crowley liked a good warming. But no, no, she’d managed to resist this temptation for millennia, she wasn’t about to give in just because she had one arm around the angel and she wasn’t pulling away and–

“Ahhhhziraphel?”

“Mm?”

Oh, curse that traitorous, forked tongue. Now that she’d opened up, she couldn’t keep it back any longer. The words popped out of her mouth like kernels set upon a hot skillet. 

“Y’know there’s something I’ve wanted to assk… well, not really a question, more of a… sssort of a request I guess, like you put on the radio, you know, just ssssort of a, alwayss, uh, alwayss wondered about, well, if, you know, if you wouldn’t mind if I ever sssso sslightly rather put my head ahhhhh on your chessssst. A bit.” 

There was a small silence. Crowley impaled her tongue with a pair of ever-so-slightly-too-sharp canines. It was only marginally more painful than her mortification. Then the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched and her face broke into that smile that made Crowley’s knees try to revert back into a tail.

“Well, I suppose there isn’t any harm in it now. In fact I’m rather surprised you hadn’t asked earlier…”

Crowley had to use her free hand to keep her jaw from unhinging.

“Really?”

“If you wish…”

“You r– uh– ah– wai– hang on, hang on– what d’you mean you’re surprised I hadn’t asked earlier?”

Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks suddenly darkened, and she drew back sharply.

“I-I mean, as a temptation, of course! Obviously. You’re so careless with your– with your wiles. I was a little shocked you h-hadn’t brought it up at least once! Sort of thing you’d do…”

“Shocked?” Crowley’s eyebrow shot up and her lips curled into a smirk, gratefully latching onto this opportunity to get back on top of things, “Or disappointed?”

Aziraphale drew herself up like an indignant dove, expression almost comically affronted.

“Anthea J. Crowley–“

“I was kidding! I was kidding, angel,” cried the demon, hastily, reaching out to attempt to draw the puffy principality back into her immediate vicinity, “Just my little joke. You know me.”

“Oh, all too well,” grumbled Aziraphale, but she relented and settled back into the cushions, “Well? Did you really want to ‘put your head on my chessst’, or was that a joke, too?”

“That part was not a joke. I was being one-hundred percent truthful, angel, honest,” replied Crowley solemnly, miming swearing on the Good Book and imagining a morally ambiguous book in its place. Twilight, maybe.

“An honest demon? Well, now I’ve heard everything…” said Aziraphale dryly, “But why the hesitation? I’ve never known you to be less than shameless…”

Crowley pursed her lips. Well. Might as well continue with that truthful streak.

“Ah… It’s– sssee it’s not a temptation, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s throat tightened and her yellow eyes avoided the other’s gaze, “Not for you, at leassst. Wasn’t part of the job, or any sort of plan or scheme. N-no excuse, really. Just ah, just… Didn’t want to offend you. I might be Crowley, but I’m not creepy unless I have to be.”

She gave a half-hearted shrug, glancing back nervously. Aziraphale’s expression softened.

“Creepy? You’re rather more squirmy, my dear…”

Crowley resisted the urge to do just that and grimaced, “That’s not what I meant, angel, it’s– it’s not, I mean, it’s kind of crass. Stickin’ your face there. Skeevy, y’know? M’ sure I don’t have to tell you that…”

She sighed sibilantly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Just… Didn’t want to make you feel like a piece of meat.”

Like a mouse at the snake’s maw. The horrible, squirmy, squeezing, salacious snake. Slung over your shoulder, too close, too constant–

“Oh, but this is different! I mean, if you went and, and… steamboated me in public–” began Aziraphale, hesitantly.

“Motorboat, angel, it’s motorboat,” Crowley cringed.

“Mhm, yes, well, that would be a different story. I’m sure I’d be very cross about that. But if it isn’t that, and it isn’t a temptation and you’ve taken my feelings into account and asked nicely–“

Crowley scowled.

“–then there’s really nothing to be worried about. It’s alright, Crowley.”

If she didn’t know any better, Crowley would have sworn Aziraphale was trying to comfort her. As if she’d finally caught wind of her internal struggle. The look in the angel’s eyes was suddenly so tender and kind… almost like a wordless apology. An invitation. Be not afraid.

Crowley licked her lips. A snicker wobbled at the edge of her throat, then burst out through her teeth.

“…Look at me, moralizing,” she snorted, “A demon, worrying about comfort and personal space…”

Aziraphale giggled in kind, a tinkling bell of a laugh. 

“Next you’ll be extolling the virtues of moderation and restraint!” She gave another celesta-light chuckle before sobering a little and glancing down, demurely. “All japes aside, though… It really isn’t a bother. After all, you’re… you’re always welcome here.”

She placed a hand delicately on her bosom, cheeks nearly scarlet. Crowley stared.

“…In your tits?”

Aziraphale’s face snapped up, “In my– you absolute dunce of a de– oh, don’t make me say it!”

“Oh.”

Oh, indeed. They had a blood stream for alcohol, after all. They needed something to make it go ‘round.   
Neither of them said anything for a while. The clock redoubled its efforts to be the loudest thing in creation. Then Crowley shuffled a little closer.

“Sso… invitation still open, or..?”

“Oh, of course it is,” Aziraphale readjusted her position and smoothed out her blouse, fussily, “Against my better judgement, of course, but nonetheless…”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile just a little. Aziraphale’s charm tended to grow proportionally to how riled up she was. Crowley waited for the angel to settle down, then carefully tilted over until her face was parallel to her companion’s breast. She was close enough to graze against it when the angel breathed in.

“Right… Here goess…” muttered Crowley, frozen to the spot. She flicked her eyes up to Aziraphale, as if for one last confirmation. The angel simply gazed back, inscrutable.

‘All at once,’ she thought, bracingly, ‘like jumping in a swimming pool.’

Crowley brought her head down with a little more force than she’d intended, causing Aziraphale to flinch and let out a little yelp of surprise.

“Oh! For goodness sake, Crowley, I’m not a trampoline!”

Crowley didn’t really hear her, though. She was somewhere else, all of the sudden. 

Crowley had had something of a refresher on heaven when she’d played her part in their recent quasi-job-quitting ruse. It looked much the same as she remembered it. Well. Same sort of aesthetic. White, ethereal, cloudy and pristine. But it felt different, since the last time she’d been there. Things changed when you started looking in from the outside. Marble floors and crisp air and a gorgeous view over all of creation became sterile. Remote. Looking down on everything became less benevolent and more, well, exactly as it sounded. Not that she’d had the time to look. That everlasting light and love still hovered around the edges, but it seemed so far off now. A billion lightyears away…

But this, this was different. This, here, pressed against soft, warm, breathing, smelling, base flesh, was heaven. This was what all those poets and painters and crooners were always banging on about. And Crowley wholeheartedly agreed with them.  
Without really intending to, she stretched out, forgetting her gingerness completely and settling into a comfortable sprawl. Her arms snaked up the angel’s sides and curled ‘round her circumference greedily.

“Hmgk,” she muffled.

Aziraphale articulated her surprise and embarrassment with an array of half-muttered chidings, before heaving a prim sigh and adjusting her position a little. 

“Really now,” she said, clearly trying to keep a quaver out of her voice, “Must you cling, so?”

“M’a snake,” Crowley replied, words still smothered in ample bosom, “Wha’dyou expect? N’ you said I could…”

After a small pause, she turned her head a little so that she could peer up at the angel, cautiously.

“Do you want me to let go?”

Aziraphale’s lips trembled, her expression calling to mind someone teetering on the middle of a tightrope. Her indefinably-coloured eyes flickered briefly upwards before squeezing shut. 

Crowley felt her heart sink as a familiar feeling of resignation settled over her. Always the ditherer, Aziraphale. You got so, so close, and then just as you thought you could reach out and touched her, she pulled away again.

Er, no, that’s your job, isn’t it? 

We are not having this conversation. 

She’s not my friend. 

I have plenty of others to fraternize with. 

You go too fast for me, Crowley. 

I don’t even like you.

I don’t think my side would like that.

She had her reasons, and Crowley was willing to wait. What was another millennia after six? It still hurt, though. That quiet, pulsing ache at the edge of every interaction. There was no getting away from that. Reluctantly, she shifted, withdrawing from the comfortable warmth.

“...No!”

The demon flinched as a pair of pudgy hands seized her shoulders. 

“What?”

The hands pulled back as quickly as they’d come and their owner stammered.

“I– I meant to say, no, it’s quite all right. The… the clinging isn’t terribly bothersome.”

Crowley swallowed, waiting. Hoping.

“I-I’d appreciate it if you removed your spectacles, though,” continued Aziraphale, hesitantly, “They dig in, rather…”

“‘Coursse, ‘course, anything for you, angel.”

The dark glasses were gone in an instant. Crowley’s eyes adjusted, pupils narrowing and widening as internal and external stimulation vied with each other. After a few moments, she decided to simply bury her face back in the slight dint in Aziraphale’s breast. There was no resistance. In fact, the angel’s hands settled back onto her shoulders, then into a ginger embrace. 

They sat there for a long time, motionless. 

“You know, I rather like snakes,” whispered Aziraphale, at length, “They’re very… coily. That is to say, they’re secure. Can’t shake them off, even if you’re… even if you’re…” 

“Struggling?” offered Crowley.

Aziraphale gave a warbly chuckle.

“Oh dear! You’ve gone and made it macabre…”

“Demon.”

“Fair enough. But, er, yes… Struggling.”

Aziraphale’s voice was soft. Regretful. 

“Well, you can struggle all you like, Aziraphale,” said Crowley with a contented grunt, tightening her grip around the angel’s midsection, “I’m not letting go any time soon.”

“How comforting,” replied the Principality. And despite the sardonic edge to her words, she meant it.


End file.
